"You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one; G.o.d knows what will become of them When I am dead and gone."

With that bespake their mother dear, "O brother kind," quoth she, "You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery.

"And if you keep them carefully, Then G.o.d will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, G.o.d will your deeds regard."

With lips as cold as any stone, They kissed their children small: "G.o.d bless you both, my children dear;"

With that their tears did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake To this sick couple there: "The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not fear.

G.o.d never prosper me or mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children dear When you are laid in grave."

The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straight unto his house, Where much of them he makes.

He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a day, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both away.

He bargained with two ruffians strong Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young And slay them in a wood.

He told his wife an artful tale: He would the children send To be brought up in fair London, With one that was his friend.

Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoicing at that tide, Rejoicing with a merry mind, They should on c.o.c.khorse ride.

They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the way, To those that should their butchers be And work their lives' decay.

So that the pretty speech they had, Made murder's heart relent; And they that undertook the deed Full sore did now repent.

Yet one of them, more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch that hired him Had paid him very large.

The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife; With one another they did fight About the children's life: And he that was of mildest mood, Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood: The babes did quake for fear!

He took the children by the hand, Tears standing in their eye, And bade them straightway follow him, And look they did not cry; And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain: "Stay here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread, When I come back again."

These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down; But never more could see the man Approaching from the town: Their pretty lips with blackberries Were all besmeared and dyed, And when they saw the darksome night, They sat them down and cried.

Thus wandered these poor innocents Till death did end their grief, In one another's arms they died, As wanting due relief.

No burial this pretty pair Of any man received, Till Robin Redbreast piously Did cover them with leaves.

And now the heavy wrath of G.o.d Upon their uncle fell; Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an h.e.l.l: His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His lands were barren made, His cattle died within the field, And nothing with him stayed.

And in the voyage to Portugal Two of his sons did die; And to conclude, himself was brought To want and misery.

He p.a.w.ned and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about.

And now at length this wicked act Did by this means come out:

The fellow that did take in hand These children for to kill, Was for a robbery judged to die, Such was G.o.d's blessed will.

Who did confess the very truth, As here hath been displayed: Their uncle having died in gaol, Where he for debt was laid.

You that executors be made, And overseers eke Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek; Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest G.o.d with such like misery Your wicked minds requite.

_Old Ballad._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.

My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep.

I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow.

Not a pine in the grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweetbrier entwines it around.

Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I have found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood pigeons breed, But let me such plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed; For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

ON A SPANIEL CALLED "BEAU" KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.

A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, Well fed, and at his ease,-- Should wiser be than to pursue Each trifle that he sees.

But you have killed a tiny bird, Which flew not till to-day, Against my orders, whom you heard Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat, And ease a doggish pain; For him, though chased with furious heat, You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort, Or one whom blood allures; But innocent was all his sport Whom you have torn for yours.

My dog! what remedy remains, Since, teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains, So much resemble man?

BEAU'S REPLY.

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird In spite of your command, A louder voice than yours I heard, And harder to withstand.

You cried--"Forbear!" but in my breast A mightier cried--"Proceed!"-- 'Twas Nature, sir, whose strong behest Impelled me to the deed.

Yet much as Nature I respect, I ventured once to break (As you perhaps may recollect) Her precept for your sake;

And when your linnet on a day, Pa.s.sing his prison door, Had fluttered all his strength away, And panting pressed the floor:

Well knowing him a sacred thing, Not destined to my tooth, I only kissed his ruffled wing, And licked the feathers smooth.

Let my obedience then excuse My disobedience now, Nor some reproof yourself refuse From your aggrieved Bow-wow;

If killing birds be such a crime, (Which I can hardly see), What think you, sir, of killing Time With verse addressed to me!

WILLIAM COWPER.